Step. Touch. Pause.Pause. Pause. 00.0 Step. Wait. Wait. Flash. Wait. Flash, --.- Weight. That number is so heavy. Like a brick. On the chest. Of a sleeping child. Whose ribs have not yet formed. It sucks the air. From my lungs. In a gasp. The way my second grade teacher did When I told her my new years resolution Was to lose weight I was 7. 3 years later my dad started making me count points. Weight watchers. Waiting and watching For that acid number Burning my skin until I have to hide In big sweaters and baggy shirtsPlease don’t look at me.Don’t talk to me. And I try to erase that number from my face With compact and eyeliner. Shadows and contours. And I’d say, “I’m just another girl, With long hair and a lot of makeup.” The hair was gone later, Because someone told that child with cancer That a donated wig would make her beautiful To hide my conflict and carbohydrate loaded dinner The makeup got thicker And still the number stained my face And the scale Sometimes it was higher Or lower It didn’t matter. Wait. Weight. Step. Touch. Pause. Pause. Pause… I hate that number And all of his siblings. The ones that go around your waist WEIGHst. Or thighs, or bust. And still, My 36D isn’t good enough It needs a 24in waist to go with. And an ass that bubbles out perfect. And I have to be sweet, and kind, and delicate, and talkative When all I really want to be Is more than that stupid number. It’s not even about the number. Not really It’s about the package,As if I would ever be on your door step weighting for you to unwrap me. But I’m not the package. And I’ll kick you ass before I ever kiss it. Because Step. Touch. Pause. Pause. Pause. 00.0 Step. Wait. Wait. Flash. Wait. Flash, --.- Weight. I am so tired of weighting.